


Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Assassination, Bonfire Night, Fireworks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of Guy Fawkes' attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament, Prince Arthur is enjoying an evening of fireworks and bonfires, at least until someone decides to emulate their role-model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

**Author's Note:**

> A long time in progress, this, and don't worry if you're unfamiliar with the traditions or history behind bonfire night. All you need to know is that Guy Fawkes tried to blow up parliament and the king, failed miserably, and as a result we celebrate with bonfires and fireworks and burning him in effigy, very little of which is relevant to this fic.

_Remember, remember, the fifth of November,  
Gunpowder, treason and plot._

Arthur stands with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed on the sky. Best place in the house ( _field_ ), nothing less for the royal family. His father is to his left, applauding each spectacular burst of light with a calm, respectable politeness, nothing like the gleeful whoops of the event organiser on Arthur’s right (invited to join them there by Morgana, and polite enough to accept even after he discovered how many rigorous background checks he was opening himself up to), or the wolf-whistles from Gwaine just in front of them.

His hands are freezing, because Arthur has never managed to remember to pick up a pair of gloves when he leaves the palace.

The audience seem enraptured by the lights, but, personally, Arthur prefers the noise: the soft crackle of the fire, the squealing as the smaller fireworks shoot into the sky, the cracks and booms so loud that he can feel them in his ribcage. Yes, the lights are pretty, blues and reds and golds and greens, but there is nothing like a noise so loud and so low that it makes its way into his bones.

The gunshot is perfectly timed. All eyes are on the sky, and with so many people there, no one really sees anything. No one sees the man kneel on the muddy hill about two hundred metres away, firelight flickering on the glass of his scope. No one hears the crack of his firearm, so well disguised is it by the biggest and brightest firework of the evening. No one notices when the man gets up and leaves, his weapon abandoned in the dirt behind him.

No one knows who he is, but within seconds, they all know what he has done.

“Arthur,” Morgana says, more urgency packed into those two syllables than Arthur would have thought possible. Her eyes are glazed, gaze absent and unseeing, her face a blank canvas so utterly at odds with her voice. “We need to-” she starts, though what it is she thinks they need to do remains a mystery, since Gwaine chooses that moment to step backwards, bumping Morgana aside as he slips into the gap between Arthur and the organiser, whose name Arthur still can’t remember.

“Quite a show, mate,” Gwaine says to the bloke, keeping his tone just shy of flirtatious out of respect for Uther’s presence; even if he isn’t exactly constrained by the same societal expectations as Arthur is, Gwaine’s suffered through enough lectures on propriety that he knows what lines not to cross, or at least when not to cross them. “I’ve seen some damn good fireworks in my time, but these are fucking impressive.”

Uther sucks in a breath, obviously one of surprised disapproval, never content with the language his third cousin thrice removed (and, despite the distance between their branches of the family, probably the family member Arthur is fondest of other than his sister) favours. Arthur turns to look at him, aiming to put a comforting hand on his arm, and sees the pained look on his father’s face in a flash of white light.

A second of darkness passes, then another flash, gold and blue this time; Arthur breathes in smoke, then sees the bloom of red on the king’s chest.

“Father?” He asks, then again, louder, as his father’s face pales and he slumps to the ground. “Father!”

X

_“You’ve reached the emergency services. What service do you require?”_

_“A- an ambulance. And the police.”_

_“Can I have your location, please?”_

_“I... London. At… a park, I…. There’s fireworks?”_

_“That’s fine, I’m running a trace on your phone, sir. Someone will be with you as soon as possible. What is the nature of your emergency?”_

_“My father has been shot.”_

_“Okay, sir. An ambulance will be with you in five minutes. Can you tell me your name?”_

_“Arthur. Pendragon.”_

X

By morning, a transcript of the call is in all the papers. The emergency services responder sells her story, how she was the first person to know of the death of the king, even though at the time the king wasn’t even dead. No one cares about the truth, not when it gets in the way of a good story, and the prince calling to report the assassination of his father? That is an _excellent_ story.

X

Arthur doesn’t remember placing the call. He doesn’t remember taking his phone from his pocket and dialling with shaking hands, doesn’t remember having no idea where he is, barely able to answer the simplest of questions. He doesn’t remember the organiser pushing him into the mud, cold water seeping instantly through his layers of coats and jumpers and scarves. He doesn’t remember pressing his hands over the hole in his father’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding.

In those moments, though, he is not a prince, not a king in waiting. He is just a boy, watching his father bleed, knowing there is nothing he can do about it.

X

He’s in the ambulance before sound and time come back to him, sat in a corner with an icy hand gripping his. The paramedics work desperately over his father, the siren blares, and the hand squeezes Arthur’s so, so tightly, a wild attempt to keep him grounded as he watches his father bleed out only feet away from him.

Minutes pass before Arthur thinks to look to the owner of the hand. He expects to see Morgana, even though it is clearly not a woman’s hand he clings to, and is surprised to be met with short hair, blue eyes above fiercely sharp cheekbones, and the most absurd ears he can remember seeing in a long time.

“Where’s-?” Arthur asks, not quite managing to finish his sentence.

“She’s in the police car just behind us, with Gwaine and her security bloke, the tall one with the hair. Yours is in your car, ahead of us. Morgana said I should ride with you.”

“My father?”

The hand holding Arthur’s tightens momentarily, a non-answer that is as clear as anything else could have been. “It doesn’t-” the man starts, but Arthur can’t hear it, not now, not yet.

“I don’t remember your name,” he says, it being so much simpler than anything else.

“Merlin Emrys. I organised tonight. I... Security are scouring the grounds, no one is allowed to leave. They _will_ find who did this.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to this, doesn’t think he will ever know what to say to something like this, and whether his father lives or dies he knows he will hear many, many sentences like this. He just sits silently, staring across the ambulance at his father, a mask on his face, white bandages pressing against his chest, turning red faster than should be possible.

He doesn’t let go of Merlin’s hand.

X

At the hospital, there is nothing to do but wait.

Arthur is cold and wet and his hands are stained with his father’s blood. The waiting room chair is solid and uncomfortable, and Morgana is pacing, leaving a trail of mud as she walks forwards and back, her bottom lip chewed red and raw. She looks less spaced out than she did earlier, sharp and present, eyes full of a fear that borders on fury.

He’s not sure that the blankness wasn’t better.

“Come with me,” Merlin says, standing and offering Arthur a hand up. Arthur takes it, because right now Merlin is doing a hell of a lot more to ground him than the two members of his family are.

Merlin leads him into the corridor, Percival following unobtrusively behind them, one hand inside his suit jacket, resting on his gun. “Bathroom,” Merlin murmurs, stopping when Percival lays a hand on his arm and steps in front of them, sweeping the room before he allows Arthur to enter.

It is not a big bathroom, a disabled one, a toilet with rails at either side, a sink against the wall, a red string hanging from the ceiling, _pull in emergency_. Arthur wonders if this counts.

“Sit,” Merlin instructs, putting down the toilet lid and guiding Arthur to it, then running warm water into the sink. He washes his own hands first, bloody from holding onto Arthur, then empties the sink and runs some fresh. Then there are hands on Arthur, unwinding his scarf, unzipping his coat, dropping them in a heap on the floor. Arthur raises his arms like a child, lets Merlin pull his filthy t-shirt up over his head and add it to the pile.

Merlin wets a wad of paper towels and wipes carefully at Arthur’s face, hands soft, the gentlest Arthur can remember being touched in ages. “Are you okay?” he asks, then laughs stutteringly. “Sorry, stupid question. Of course you aren’t, your father is undergoing major surgery. Can I do anything?”

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur answers, as fingers comb through his hair, brushing loose dried dirt before Merlin starts there with a fresh lot of towels.

Merlin pauses, glances at him in what might be surprise, then carries on. “I lost my father a few years ago, a mugging. We were out walking, and this guy jumps out at us, waving a knife around, demanding money, phones, watches, everything. So we handed over what we had, but I guess he thought we were holding back, because he lunged at me. My dad jumped between us before I could- well, they told me I couldn’t have done anything, but since it was my dad with a knife in his gut...”

Merlin takes a breath, and Arthur doesn’t really need to hear the end of the story. He knows how it’s going to end, but he can’t quite bring himself to tell Merlin to stop. “Someone heard,” Merlin continues. “This woman, dead brave. She came running over, never mind that she was out on her own. She’s the one called 999. Not in time, though. He was dead before the ambulance got there.”

“I’m s-”

“No,” Merlin murmurs, pressing the index and middle fingers of his right hand to Arthur’s lips, the unexpected intimacy of the gesture stunning Arthur’s brain into silence just as much as his mouth. “That’s not why I’m saying it. I understand, that was all I meant. I get it, and I would have given anything to have someone there to look after me when it happened.”

Arthur can’t really do anything other than stare at him, because this kindness is just... unexpected. Yes, Arthur is used to politeness, kindness that is cool and distant, compassion that comes because of what he is rather than _who_ he is. He knows how that works, and why it works, but this, a niceness that seems to be utterly genuine, from someone who has yet to address him by his title and who isn’t being paid to stay near him, someone who doesn’t see a problem with touching Arthur the way he probably would anyone else? This is new.

“Is my father going to die?” he asks, the words coming out before he can stop them, before he even thinks about them. Morgana put him in the ambulance with this man, this stranger, rather than herself or his security people. Morgana trusts him, Gwaine certainly seems to like him, and right now Arthur needs the truth, not someone who is paid to lie to him, be it a doctor or one of his guards (they’re also his friends, but that doesn’t change the fact that Arthur’s father signs their paycheques).

“I don’t know, Arthur. Your highness, I mean, sorry. I want to tell you that he’ll be fine, I do, but I don’t know, and I won’t promise you anything other than the truth.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says. “Thank you, Merlin.”

“Come on,” Merlin answers, guiding Arthur back onto his feet. “Just your hands left, and then we’ll see about finding you a clean shirt.”

He runs his hands under the tap, adds a decent squirt of soap, then rubs them into a lather and takes Arthur’s left hand between both of his. The foam is pink within seconds, but Merlin doesn’t react – why would he, when he’s already washed Arthur’s father’s blood, the king’s blood, from his own hands? Merlin’s thumbs press into the palm of Arthur’s hand, smooth and careful, rubbing every last speck of red from it, cleaning all the lines on his palms before moving to his fingers, one at a time.

Arthur watches the coloured bubbles wash down the sink as Merlin runs his thumbnail under Arthur’s, and feels a little bit like throwing up and a lot like breaking down.

Neither is an option.

“Sir,” Percival says, pushing the mostly-closed door half-open as he does so. “The princess is looking for you.”

Arthur tugs his hands free of Merlin’s, only just realising how long he’s let the other man hold them, how long they have been squeaky clean (metaphorically, at least) and carefully patted down.

“Right,” Arthur manages, looking at the mess of his clothes on the floor. “I need a shirt.”

Percival’s large hand reaches around the door, loosely clasping a blue shirt, medical scrubs, _just_ what Arthur is looking for, but it’s a hospital so it’s kind of what he can expect. The hand is all that appears.

“We’re decent,” Merlin states, as if anyone would expect anything else when doctors are cutting into Arthur’s father as they speak, not to mention the fact that, as far as the seven billion people on the planet who aren’t Arthur are concerned, he’s only interested in women.

“He knows that,” Arthur mutters, pulling the shirt over his head. “He just has this thing with privacy, don’t you, Perce?”

“It is possible to ensure your safety without infringing on your freedom, sir,” Percival says, part of a conversation they’ve had many times, and one that he’s overheard Percival having with other members of his and Morgana’s staff (their father’s guards tend to keep to themselves, where possible). “Particularly today.”

Arthur nods at him as he passes, rejoining Morgana in the waiting room. His sister is sitting now, finally, and Arthur wonders vaguely whether it was Leon or Gwaine who talked her into it. Either way, he’s grateful, because from the look on her face it’s not going to be long before she drops, and it’s far easier for Arthur to pretend he’s clinging to her hand for her sake rather than his.

X

The second shooter makes his attempt just before midnight.

X

“I don’t feel good,” Morgana says, extracting her hand from Arthur’s and swaying to her feet. “I need some air.”

“I do _not_ think that’s wise,” Leon tells her, a hand on her shoulder that isn’t strictly bodyguardly, but Arthur lets it pass. Arthur has always let it pass; the more Leon cares for his sister, the harder he’ll work to keep her safe. It’s irresponsible, he knows, and Uther would kill them if he knew, kill Leon for failing in his duty, Arthur for standing by and ignoring it, Morgana for not asking for a replacement head of security as soon as she worked out how Leon feels about her. Then again, Uther isn’t in any position to be killing anyone anytime soon, won’t be in any position anytime soon.

“I’ll come with you,” Arthur says, because his father is maybe dying and he’s stuck here with his security and the two members of his family who are the closest to understanding him, and Merlin, this stranger who washed away the blood and sits next to Arthur like he can support him, like he knows him. He stands up as well, taking Morgana’s hand again, because he still needs someone to cling to. “Come on.”

“Arthur!” Five people say, his guards, his sister, his cousin and his... Merlin.

“You _have_ to stay inside,” Morgana says, yanking her hand free, the weird fervour back in her voice. “It’s not safe for you out there.”

“You’re not safe either, Morgana,” Leon corrects. “You’re both staying where you are.”

“Morons,” Gwaine concludes, because it’s obvious that Leon is thinking it, even if he’s never going to say it.

Percival doesn’t say anything, which isn’t exactly a whole lot different from normal, but he rises slowly to his feet and then just looks at Arthur. He doesn’t look angry – he’d never dare, even if he was capable of it – but he does look firm, implacable, his calm silence more oppressive than rage might be.

It’s not enough, though, because however long Merlin spent washing his hands Arthur can still feel the blood there, hot and wet and bright, blood that makes up half of his own, and he cannot breathe. He needs to get out.

“We’re _both_ going,” he says, looking Percival dead in the eyes, both of them moving to look at Leon at the same time. Arthur knows these men, trusts them with his life every single day, considers them his friends regardless or perhaps because of that fact, and he can see every sentence of the conversation they have right now, every word exchanged without words. _The police have secured the area_ , Leon doesn’t say, and, _The perimeter isn’t a small one_ , Percival doesn’t answer _. Perhaps one at a time,_ and, finally, Arthur ready with his most determined expression when they turn as one to look at him, _Do you actually think we can stop them?_

“Stay here,” Leon says to Arthur, leaving no room for argument, then turns his back on him. “Morgana, you have two minutes. You will stay behind me, and you will do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she answers, which is about as much obedience as Arthur has ever seen his sister show anyone. She doesn’t look at Arthur as she passes him, her eyes fixed ahead of her, back ramrod straight, terror hidden behind a steel curtain of resolve, and Arthur doesn’t try to stop her, or to argue that he should go with her. She’ll be safe with Leon, he knows, and she’s the one who needs the space, who asked for it, and with her outside half the fear in the room is gone.

With Morgana following Leon out the door, the only person’s nightmares he has to face are his own, and that’s an awful lot simpler, and an awful lot worse.

He sits back down again, feels Merlin shuffle along to sit next to him, Merlin’s hand slide around his, warm and weighty. Anchoring.

And then all hell breaks loose.

X

There is one beep from down the corridor the paramedics ran Uther down. Just one beep, loud and sharp, then a second, third, fourth, getting faster and faster, and the voices rising above it have Arthur on his feet, fighting to free his hand from Merlin’s only to give up, dragging him with him.

“Stop,” Percival says, standing as well, putting himself between Arthur and the doors. “You need to let them work, Arthur. Going in there won’t help.”

“It’s my father,” he says. “Perce, he’s my father. I can’t just sit here.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and he’s clinging just as tightly to Arthur as Arthur is clinging to him, although God alone knows why. It’s not Merlin’s father dying on a table, his insides on the outside and shards of metal where they shouldn’t be. It’s not Merlin losing the only parent he’s ever known, not Merlin who’ll never be able to smell smoke or hear a firework without remembering tonight. It’s not Merlin who has something to be scared of. “He’s right, Arthur, I know it’s hard, but he’s right. Sit down, please.”

The beeping is sustained now, long and persistent, and the words shouted over it are just words, sounds devoid of meaning. The only thing real is Arthur, Arthur and the hands tethering him to the world, stopping him drifting off into space like all the gravity is gone from the room, Merlin’s fingers laced through his, Percival’s palms pressing against his shoulders, keeping him in the waiting room and out of the operating theatre.

The beeping stops, but the words don’t, not immediately, continuing frantic and fearful and then, too suddenly, gone.

“Call it,” someone says in the silence.

Outside, Morgana shrieks.

X

“Stay here,” Percival orders, and Arthur’s mind is too far gone to put meaning to the syllables. “For fuck’s sake, keep him here.”

The latter sentence is directed at Merlin and Gwaine, both of whom are clinging to Arthur, trying to keep him on his feet and oh, fuck, his father is dead, and Morgana is still screaming, Percival’s arms wrapped around her as he drags her back inside, struggling and shrieking.

Arthur falls to his knees as Gwaine lets him go, Merlin not quite able to hold him upright on his own. He tries, of that Arthur has no doubt, and when trying fails he drops down beside Arthur, wrapping his arms around him, holding on as Arthur doesn’t cry and Gwaine takes Morgana from Percival.

“Let me go,” she yells. “You bastards, it was _supposed_ to be me. Leon! Leon!”

“I’ve got him,” Percival tells her, reappearing through the door, hustling Leon before him. The pair of them both have guns drawn, Arthur registers vaguely, even if Leon’s gun arm is braced across the other and his face is tight with pain.

“I’m fine, Morgana,” Leon says, although he quite obviously isn’t, lowering his weapon once he’s inside and Percival has closed the door. “It’s just a scratch.”

Morgana stares at him for a moment, her hair as wild as the look on her face, almost feral and definitely dangerous. “Never,” she spits at Leon, and Percival too, probably. “Never, ever do that again.” And then, without saying anything further to either of them, she turns to the door leading from their waiting room to the remainder of the hospital, and puts her lungs to good use. “Nurse!”

“They can spare Father’s,” Arthur says, sounding like ice too thin to skate on, cracking with every step he takes. “They can’t help him now.”

Morgana whips her head around so fast it has to being doing damage, only now realising how silent the world is, outside the range of her noise.

“Oh,” she says, and she and Uther have never been close – she’s never forgiven him for refusing to oppose primogeniture for her, firstborn but always second place – but right now it’s the look on her face that brings it home to Arthur how real this all is.

X

Merlin doesn’t let go when the doctors come in, finally finding the balls to tell them what they already know, only to discover they have another patient to treat. He doesn’t let go when Leon is escorted from the waiting room to a treatment room, Morgana refusing to leave his side. He doesn’t let go the first time someone calls Arthur _your majesty_ , looks at him like he’s king rather than just the next in line.

Merlin doesn’t let go.

X

“You need to leave,” Morgana says, while one doctor stitches up the through-and-through in Leon’s arm and another talks about muscle damage and not overexerting it, physiotherapy and whatever else, both ignoring the fact that if Leon stands beside Morgana the bullet hole is exactly level with the centre of her forehead. “You’re next.”

“Morgana,” Leon says, so much warning in his tone, wincing as the doctor ties off the final stitch. “Not here.”

Morgana glares, brutal and terrifying, and even if Arthur’s been confronted with that look almost every day of his life, it still scares him, still has him wondering how anyone who knows her could possibly find her attractive. And then she dismisses him, turning to Arthur, and the look in her eyes is nothing but rational and even more frightening for that fact. “Father first,” she says. “Then it would have been me. You’re next.”

Arthur is suddenly terrified, and not because Morgana sounds so horribly certain, and for once she actually seems to have a reason for what she’s saying with such determination. “Come with me,” he says, pointing out what she maybe hasn’t noticed. “They didn’t get you, Morgana. They’ll try again.”

“They don’t want me anymore,” she says, proving that just because she looks rational it doesn’t mean actually is. “It’s you they’re after.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Morgana answers, “I do, Arthur. And even if they were… I’m not leaving Leon,” she argues, despite the fact that, whatever feelings the pair of them might have for one another, it’s Leon’s job to keep _her_ safe. “We’ll stay away from windows, not leave the building, lock ourselves in somewhere. I’ll be fine.”

“‘Gana, please.”

“Go with Merlin,” Morgana instructs firmly, a finality to it that shows she won’t give. It’s her way or no way, always, and even if it looks like she’s letting someone else win, it’s only because she’s found another way to get what she wants. “You’ll be safe with him. Take Percival, leave through the doors to the ambulance bay. No one will follow you that way.”

Percival and Leon are doing their silent speech thing again, but this time Arthur is lost to what they’re saying. His father is gone, Morgana is all he has left, and he can’t imagine leaving her when she might be in danger. “Come with me,” he says again. “Please.”

Morgana shakes her head, stubborn and certain and stronger than Arthur will ever be. “No, Arthur. No.”

“Where do we go?” Percival asks, and it’s a good question. The press surround the building, and even in an internal courtyard of Britain’s securest, most elite private hospital, someone managed to take a shot at Morgana. Nowhere is safe, nowhere is secure, and – however confident his sister might be, however often she manages to defy the odds and be right about things when she sounds like that – there’s almost no chance they won’t be followed.

“Mine,” Merlin says. “I live alone, top floor flat in a manned building. It’s secure.”

“Are you sure, Merlin?” Percival asks, like leaving Morgana there is at all a sensible course of action, like anything about this damn situation could be considered sensible.

“Not one hundred percent, but the press will be watching every road between here and the palace, so unless you want to risk that…?”

Percival grimaces, then checks with Leon. “Okay. And Gwaine?”

“There won’t be loads of room,” Merlin says, “but yeah, he can stay as well.”

“Okay,” Perce says again, clapping Leon on the shoulder of his undamaged arm. “Princess Morgana, if you so much as think of going near a window, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your life locked in the Tower. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” Morgana answers, glaring up at him. “And, Percival, we’ve already lost our father today. Do your goddamn job and keep my brother safe.”

Percival nods abruptly. “Leon, you’ll be alright?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Leon says again.

“I meant with her,” Percival mutters, too quiet for Morgana to hear, thank God. He opens the door halfway, checks the hallway in both directions, then proceeds to lead Merlin and Arthur back to the waiting room where they left Gwaine, his hand still on the butt of his gun.

X

Amazingly – and Arthur has no idea how – Merlin leads them from Leon’s hospital room to the ambulance bay without their being noticed or getting lost, despite never looking up from his feet. Even more miraculously, he convinces Percival to hand over the keys to the blacked-out, well-armoured, utterly indiscreet Land Rover Evoque that is the most recent vehicle his security team has invested in, working on the logic that Merlin is the only one of them not likely to be immediately recognised by the hordes of reporters still surrounding the hospital.

Most improbable of all is how quickly Merlin reappears, pulling smoothly to a halt across the huge yellow writing that forbids parking under any circumstances, regardless of who one’s father happens to be.

“Do you want to drive?” Merlin asks, already halfway out the car.

“No,” Percival answers, as Gwaine chirps, “Yes!”

“Not a chance, Gwaine,” Perce says, opening first the front passenger door and then the rear. He shoves Gwaine in the front, then waits for Arthur to climb in the back before rounding the car and sliding in next to him, his eyes roaming the car park around them the whole time. “You can’t drive without attracting every police car in the area, and only Merlin knows where we’re going,” he adds, still scanning all around them, and Merlin proceeds remarkably calmly on to the road.

X

Merlin drives almost exactly at the speed limit, stops carefully at every single pedestrian crossing and set of traffic lights, and generally manages to avoid attracting attention. In a normal car, this wouldn’t be too much of an achievement, but in the type of secured monstrosity Arthur has been driven around in all his life, going without notice isn’t quite as easy.

Even Gwaine manages to be silent on the way to Merlin’s and, in the absence of anything else to distract him, Arthur stares absently out the window without actually seeing anything.

X

“It’s not much,” Merlin says, unlocking the door and ushering in Percival, Gwaine and Arthur, the latter now wrapped in an ugly jacket someone left in the boot, face buried in the hood. “And it’s not exactly tidy, either,” he adds, just before switching on the light and showing them the kind of mess Arthur has only ever seen on TV. “But then we don’t all have fifty cleaners to pick up after us. Sire.”

Gwaine’s expression flickers briefly into a smile, gone before Arthur can even finish thinking how little there is to smile about. “I’ve seen worse,” he says, and, knowing Gwaine, that’s probably the truth.

Arthur shrugs his borrowed coat off, draping it over the back of a chair when he fails to find a hook. He should probably say something polite and untrue, something along the lines of _it’s not so bad_ , the kind of thing his father would expect him to say, but his father…

“Here,” Merlin says, crossing the kitchen part of his small, open-plan flat and clicking the kettle on. “There’s tea and coffee in that cupboard,” he says, pointing, “And milk in the fridge. Obviously, that’s where milk lives, but… Okay, mugs up there, help yourselves to anything you can find, I’m not sure when I last went shopping, but… I’ll be back soon.”

“Where,” Arthur starts, then clears his throat and tries a second time. “Where are you going?” he asks, trying to ignore the looks the other three are exchanging.

“I’m moving the car,” Merlin explains after a moment. “It’s a little bit conspicuous, and since I’m not ninety foot tall, the UK’s most eligible bachelor, or whatever Gwaine’s actual title is, we figured I’d sort it out.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, “right.”

Merlin glances once more at Percival, seemingly satisfied by whatever tiny twitch of expression he gets in reply. “Right,” he echoes. “I’ll be back soon.”

X

Merlin’s definition of soon is not, it turns out, anything close to what Arthur has been led to believe the word means, and certainly not in line with the incessant punctuality Uther demands of people.

It’s kind of refreshing, actually, that someone doesn’t feel the need to be dead on time to please Arthur.

“Here,” Percival says, holding a hooded sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. “The shower’s behind that door, sir,” he adds, pointing, then puts the clothes on the table beside Arthur and moves from the tiny dining area to the even tinier kitchen, nudging Gwaine aside in order to click the kettle on. “I’ve checked it already, and I’ll have a cup of tea ready for you when you’re done.”

“Oh,” Arthur answers, standing up and walking in the direction of the door Percival indicated, then returns to pick up the clothes.

X

Merlin still isn’t back when Arthur stumbles back into the main room, the jogging bottoms snug around his waist and very slightly too long in the legs, the hoody so large on him that he can’t imagine how Merlin can possibly wear it without drowning. He’s not back when Arthur’s hands shake so badly that he spills hot tea all over the table and his own arm, or when Gwaine steers Arthur over to the sofa and Percival mops up the mess.

“Well,” Gwaine says, perching on the edge of the seat next to Arthur, his hand fluttering vaguely before coming down to rest on Arthur’s knee. “I never liked the bastard, but he was still your dad and I’m sorry.”

If Merlin was there, or any other outsider, Arthur would feel the need to acknowledge Gwaine, either with the polite, dutiful _thank you_ that his position requires of him or by punching the twat in the face. Merlin still isn’t back, though, which means Arthur doesn’t have to respond at all, and there’s no one other than Percival to judge him for his lack of manners or immense self-control.

“What I’m sure Gwaine means to say, sir,” Percival interjects, “is that your father was a great man, and you have our sympathies. Is there anything we can do?”

_Undo it_ , Arthur thinks. _Ctrl+z, please. I’d like to restart the level._

“More tea, please?” he asks, because he suspects Percival is probably hoping for the sort of request he can actually grant.

Percival nods, then tugs Gwaine’s arm until he stands up. “More tea, Gwaine,” he instructs, “and I’ll have one, too, thanks.”

Gwaine’s expression of abject bewilderment is almost enough to drag a laugh from Arthur.

X

Leon checks in at one, then again at half past, he and Percival speaking just long enough to confirm the most necessary points: Arthur is safe; Morgana is safe; the press are still swamping the hospital, oblivious to the fact that one of the two people they’re looking for is no longer there; Merlin isn’t back from hiding the car yet.

“You don’t think…?” Gwaine half-asks, as the minute hand on Arthur’s watch creeps ever closer to two, the time for Leon’s next call.

“I don’t know, Gwaine,” Perce answers, shaking his head, apparently familiar enough with the inner workings of Gwaine’s brain that he can understand the incompleteness that leaves Arthur baffled. “He seemed alright, but… People have done a lot worse for a lot less money than this’d be worth, you know?”

Arthur thinks of Merlin, the man who stood beside him at the firework display, grinning like every brilliance of light was as much a surprise to him as it was to everyone else. The man his sister shoved into the ambulance beside him, who held Arthur’s hand as men tried to fill the hole in his father’s chest. Who washed away the blood when Arthur couldn’t think to do it for himself, who clung to Arthur like he wanted to help him carry the burden that has fallen so suddenly on his shoulders.

“Morgana said I’d be safe with him,” he says, startling both Gwaine and Percival with his sudden break from silence. “‘Gana…” Arthur falters, unable to find the words to describe the way his sister sometimes has _feelings_ about people or things, a gut instinct that manages to be absolutely accurate even as it seems to be utterly irrational. The feelings he ridicules her for thinking she has, even if he can never actually think of an occasion she was wrong. And tonight, the urgency of her voice when she turned to him at the bonfire, either his imagination or hers, a flight of fancy that wasn’t, can’t have been, _is_ , because Morgana _knows_ and if Arthur had believed more and dismissed less and moved faster then… But no. That ways lies madness, and Arthur can’t afford to lose it right now. “ _I_ trust him.”

“Sir, I’m…” Percival starts, but falls silent when he fails to find any respectful way of phrasing his doubts.

“Arthur,” Gwaine picks up, apparently having no such qualms, even if he tends to be one of the first to listen when Morgana says she has a bad feeling about something, the superstitious git. “I get that you’re kind of having a difficult night, and I’m as big a believer in Morgana’s freaky shit as the next man, particularly after that thing with Viv, but… neither of you knew Merlin before yesterday, yeah? ‘S an awful lot of faith to put in someone you just met.”

“I trust him,” Arthur repeats, staring down at his spotless hands, wondering how it is he can still feel both his father’s blood and the comfort of Merlin’s skin against his. “We’re safe here.”

The scrape of a key in the lock that follows his words feels like some sort of karmic reward.

X

“Sorry I took so long,” Merlin says, stumbling into his flat and immediately tugging the gloves from his fingers. “Completely empty train, but I had a moment of thinking someone was following me, ended up going two stops further than I needed to, just in case, then got the last bus half a mile less than I should have and walked back here.”

Percival’s face twitches in what might be a smile. “How thorough,” Perce says, while Gwaine manages to make a cough sound an awful lot like the word _bonkers._

Merlin looks a little flustered, ducking his head in what is probably an attempt to hide his flushed cheeks, then retreats from Arthur’s immediate line of sight, making shuffling noises that suggest the removal of shoes and coat. “Right,” he says quietly, reappearing, his cheeks still stained pink with embarrassment. “I’m sticking the kettle on. Does anyone want another drink?”

“Coffee, please,” Percival answers, handing over his mug when Merlin reaches for it, while Gwaine opts for tea, grimacing, like he’s only picking that because Merlin hasn’t offered him a beer.

It takes Arthur a long moment to realise why the three of them are staring at him, and even then it’s only when Merlin prompts, “Arthur?” in the kindest possible voice that he thinks to respond.

“I’m…” Arthur starts, then stands, feeling like his legs probably ought to be creaking as he does so. “I’m tired,” he says. “Can I… Is there somewhere I can sleep?”

“Oh.” Merlin looks horribly surprised, like it hadn’t occurred to him that his guests might want somewhere to sleep. “Yeah, I’ll just… Give me a minute.”

He abandons the mugs beside the kettle, disappearing behind the one and only door that doesn’t lead to the bathroom.

“So…” Gwaine drawls, grinning in a deeply inappropriate way. “Which one of us are you planning on sharing with, your highness?”

X

Gwaine’s words are still trawling through Arthur’s brain when Merlin reappears from the room that is quite clearly his bedroom quite a few minutes later, a quilt and pillows heaped into his arms. “Right,” he says, looking flustered again. “I’ve put clean sheets on my bed, Arthur – sir – and the sofa pulls out into a bed, so… I’ve got a friend a couple of floors down, I’ll kip at his.”

“To hell with that,” Gwaine says, grinning. “You’re letting us stay in your home, we’re not going to kick you out.”

“My _home_ ,” Merlin argues, and Arthur can’t quite identify the emotion in his tone, if only because he’s not quite sure there’s a word for something lying smack-bang between _contempt_ and _defensive pride_ , “is barely big enough for two people, and in case you haven’t noticed there’s three of you.”

“And?” Gwaine asks, his grin now more of a smirk, eyebrows poised on the brink of waggling; Arthur feels the same ugly flicker of jealousy he always does when confronted with Gwaine being himself, Gwaine _getting_ to be himself, though today it is only a flicker, almost immediately overwhelmed by the fact that his father will no longer know or care how he acts. Uther is gone, and Arthur will never know if his father could have forgiven him for wanting to be someone else.

“And that’s already one more person than there are beds.”

“Nah, Percival’s on duty. He won’t be sleeping. And you can share with me, obviously,” Gwaine says, something about his tone suggesting that he genuinely thinks this is obvious.

Merlin stares at him, looking rather like the late hour has got the better of him. “Erm, I… I don’t think that’s…”

“So, do you have a problem sharing a bed with blokes in general, or is it just me?”

Merlin smiles, tight and uncertain; Arthur isn’t sure what Merlin isn’t saying, whether it’s that he’s offended by Gwaine’s question or just not as willing to share every single aspect of his existence as Gwaine is. “Right,” he says after a minute. “I’m going to have a shower, and then I’m going to sleep on the floor, since you won’t let me go find a bed at Lance’s.”

“I _said_ you could share with me,” Gwaine mutters, but Merlin has already locked the bathroom door behind him.

X

Merlin’s bed is surprisingly comfortable, and has thankfully few pillows compared to all the other beds Arthur has slept in in his life. The mattress is almost perfectly between too soft and too hard, the quilt is just the right thickness, the sheets smell fresh but not as obnoxiously floral as his sheets at home do when they’ve just been washed, and yet Arthur still can’t sleep.

He’s an orphan.

He knows, logically, that pretty much everyone who doesn’t die horribly young ends up orphaned eventually, but he wasn’t ready for it. If Uther had been sick, he could have braced himself for it, and if he’d been old, Arthur would have been grown up, ready, older than twenty-four.

_Shit_.

He never knew his mum, only knows the few things Morgana has told him when Uther wasn’t around, and even then they were only the foggy recollections of someone who lost her mother when she was barely five, tales of braided hair and bedtime stories. That was never how Uther worked, hands-on parenting wasn’t for him, but he was family, his father, the only parent Arthur’s ever had, and…

He’s gone.

His father’s gone.

Arthur’s grown up fighting with his father, not quite as much as Morgana but still frequently and fairly loudly. They’ve never seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things, collided again and again on such tiny things as Arthur’s school, university, future, matters of politics, religion, freedom, life in general… He and Uther didn’t agree almost ever, but he was family, his father, guardian, role model, king…

He’s gone.

His father’s gone.

And by the time Arthur turned sixteen, he’d figured out what things would piss off his father, what topics weren’t open for discussion, and he’d started to work around them, find other ways to address the things he needed to talk about, but even then… There are so many things he never got around to, so many things he wished he’d told his father or asked him or anything. He never really asked what his grandparents were like, or how his parents met, or whether his father was really as unbending as he seemed, if he really believed all the things he said. He never asked, and now…

He’s gone.

Arthur’s thoughts are still circling like vultures over a fresh corpse when someone raps on the door, brisk but still soft. He doesn’t know how to respond to it – particularly since it’s probably Merlin and this is his room – but apparently that’s not actually necessary; Merlin, presumably deciding Arthur’s asleep, opens the door and pads in, his feet almost silent on the carpet.

Arthur should say something, he knows that much, but then Merlin crosses into his line of sight, illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps sneaking in through the gap in the curtains Arthur couldn’t quite get to close. He’s wrapped in a towel, light reflecting off the moisture on his skin, and Arthur is torn between closing his eyes out of respect for Merlin’s privacy and staring, drinking in as much as he can before morning comes and he has to return to his actual life, now with added responsibility.

Merlin leans over the chest of drawers next to the window, and Arthur is definitely staring, enraptured by the trickle of water making its way from the curl of hair at the base of his neck to the towel slung around his hips. It’s definitely wrong, spying on him without his knowledge, but…

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, turning around before Arthur can close his eyes, his voice barely audible over Gwaine’s snores. “Sorry, I should have got something to sleep in before showering, but I… I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Arthur swallows far too loudly, then props himself up on his elbows. “With the tractor in the living room? You’re really not that noisy,” he jokes, but something in his tone falls short of humorous. “No, I’m not sleeping.”

“Understandable,” Merlin says, and with the light now mostly behind him Arthur can’t see his expression, but he sounds painfully kind. He falls silent for a moment, digging a t-shirt out of the top drawer and stepping further back into the shadows. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? A beer?”

He’s still moving as he makes the offer, crossing from the drawers to the wardrobe in the corner and opening both the doors. Doing so means he’s temporarily out of Arthur’s line of sight, and Arthur blinks for what feels like the first time since Merlin walked into the room, his eyes aching and lungs unsteady: his father died tonight, but somehow the only thing Arthur can think about is that he’s in another man’s bedroom, another man’s _bed_ , and it’s no longer for just one reason that he wishes the circumstances behind his being here were different.

“No, thank you,” Arthur says slowly, as Merlin reappears from behind the wardrobe door, now clad in the t-shirt and a pair of boxers. “Besides, Gwaine’ll be pissed if he misses the booze.”

“What Gwaine doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Merlin says, smiling – not properly, not happily, but polite, respectful. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, trying to reflect Merlin’s smile with one of his own. He fails, but he tries, and that has to be worth something. “Thank you.”

Merlin nods, still smiling politely, almost painfully distant, nothing like the man Arthur found himself clinging to earlier in the evening. “I hope you sleep soon, Arthur,” Merlin says, retreating towards the door, and Arthur suddenly doesn’t want him to go, wants back the person who told him about something so very personal as his father’s death just to make Arthur feel less alone.

“Wait,” he says, so quietly that he thinks Merlin might not hear him, so desperate that he almost wishes he wouldn’t.

Merlin does hear, though, pausing before his hand gets to the door. “Arthur?”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur says quickly, his pride getting the better of him for a second. It’s long enough for Merlin to crack the door open, though, which means he’s going to have to face Percival tomorrow knowing that he heard what Arthur’s about to say – thank God Gwaine is asleep, Arthur thinks. “I just… Will you stay? Please?”

Merlin stays quiet for a long moment, and even in the darkness Arthur is pretty sure he’s staring at him. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” he says eventually, his tone apologetic and – though Arthur’s willing to admit this might just be wishful thinking – a little regretful.

“No,” Arthur agrees, “it really isn’t, but…” His sentence trails off into nothingness, because there’s no real argument to give, and Arthur finds himself grabbed by the memory of the first and last time he tried to persuade Uther to allow him to have friends sleep over in his room. He was eleven, trying to enjoy the last few weeks of summer at home before being packed off to boarding school, and strangled with envy each time his friends talked about midnight feasts and forbidden horror films. _It’s not appropriate_ , Uther said, and, _There’s more than enough guest rooms for everyone_ had ended the discussion so effectively that Arthur never tried again.

“You’re right,” Arthur says, “but… Will you tell me about your dad?”

Merlin’s silent almost as long this time as he was after Arthur’s last question, but finally he nods, sliding the door closed.

“Okay,” he says, perching on the edge of the bed beside Arthur. “What do you want to know?”

X

“He had this beard,” Merlin says. “My mum totally hated it, and his hair. She’d say he looked like a tramp, or like we were too poor to afford a razor or a trip to the barbers, and he’d laugh at her every time, say something like ‘hah, you love me anyway’, and she’d laugh too, and…”

X

“It’s funny,” Merlin says. “Or not really, not funny, but... yeah. After Dad died, all I could think of were the things I never said to him.”

“Like what?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shrugs, and in the almost-darkness his smile looks a little sheepish. “He had this trophy, I can’t remember what for, but he was so proud of it, and… So my friend Will and I were playing football in the house, and we’d been told fifty times not to, but it was raining and awful outside and we were bored, so football seemed like a great idea. Somehow, the trophy got knocked over, and it broke into about a hundred pieces and Will took the blame because Dad already thought he was an unruly brat and I would have been grounded for at least a month. And then when Dad died, all I could think about was how much I wished I’d told him the truth.”

“Morgana broke a lamp once,” Arthur admits. “She was so mad about something, probably a boy Uther didn’t want her to date, and she just threw it straight at the wall. Anyway, she convinced me that Father would be less angry if he thought it was me, so I pretended it was some kind of accident.”

Merlin frowns. “Why did she think that?” he asks, his confusion audible. “I mean, Will wasn’t my dad’s kid, it’s not like he could have yelled at him, but Morgana’s your sister.” He pauses and Arthur thinks he’d probably find his expression fairly amusing if the light was bright enough for him to make it out. “She is your sister, right? There’s not some kind of secret royal scandal where she’s not really your parents’ kid, is there?”

Arthur laughs, a little, and it’s only when he hears Merlin’s answering chuckle that he wonders if that was maybe what Merlin was hoping for. He answers the question anyway, but there’s a warmth inside him that wasn’t there a minute ago. “She’s my sister,” Arthur says. “Thankfully, though, her lunacy doesn’t seem to be genetic.”

It’s a joke he’s made many times, but, somehow, this time it feels far more rewarding.

X

“She always thought he loved me more,” Arthur says. What he doesn’t say is that he’d happily have swapped with Morgana, would have given almost anything if it meant he was allowed the same freedom she was. “I’ve always know that he didn’t.”

X

“What was the best thing your dad ever did for you?” Arthur asks, realising that it’s a bizarre and probably overly personal question, crossing the line from friendly curiosity to outright nosiness.

“Um,” Merlin answers, fidgeting slightly, clearly uncomfortable, and Arthur feels more than a little guilty. “I guess it’s… There were these guys in my year at school, and they didn’t like me much. I was all bookish and seriously bad at sports, and then when I…” He pauses, shuffling a little further away from Arthur, and Arthur has a sudden flash of hope that tells him he knows what Merlin is going to say next. “They already didn’t think much of me, and then I- I came out when I was fourteen, and that pretty much cemented things. They jumped me after school one day, Will had been walking home with me since I told people, just in case, but he had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon, so I was on my own, and…”

_You don’t have to carry on_ , Arthur thinks, wishing he’d never asked the question even as part of him doesn’t regret it at all. Nothing will happen, nothing _can_ happen, but… it’s good to know, maybe, even as he doesn’t really want to hear what happens next.

“I was walking home on my own,” Merlin continues. “Cut through the park, shortcut, you know, but there they were, waiting. Started in with a few insults, nothing I hadn’t heard a hundred times in the corridor, both before and after, so I carried on walking and the next thing I knew I was on the floor, someone’s foot in my ribs.”

He stops talking very suddenly; Arthur wonders if he’s misunderstanding his sympathetic wince, but then he picks up again. “It wasn’t that bad, Arthur,” he says, though his next words definitely contradict that. “A good few bruises, a couple of broken ribs, but no internal bleeding or anything, so I recovered pretty quick. Got a few weeks off from PE, too, so it was almost worth it.” He laughs, nervous and unsure, then reaches over and pats Arthur’s hand. “I was fine, really. Will went round to mine after his appointment, then set off towards school looking for me when he realised I wasn’t there. He scared them off, got an ambulance and my parents there, and then when I refused to say who it was he grassed them up.”

“Why?” Arthur asks. “Why wouldn’t you say anything?”

This time, Merlin’s laugh is a lot more genuine, and far more certain. “You’ve never been bullied, have you, Arthur?” he asks, then splutters again. “Of course you haven’t, you’re a prince, but… Well, telling doesn’t tend to do anything but make things worse. Schools don’t like expelling people, it doesn’t make them look good, so the bullies just get a good telling off, maybe a detention or two if they’re particularly awful, and that just makes them angrier and meaner and- yeah. After the first few times, I stopped saying anything.

“My dad, though, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. My first day back at school, he marched me straight into the headmaster’s office, told him that he was pressing charges against the boys, and that if the school didn’t do everything in their power to make sure nothing like that ever happened again, he’d be charging the school with anything and everything he could think of. The headmaster folded like a pack of cards, kicked the boys out, and my dad made it clear that the threat against the school could come back if ever anything like that happened again, to me or anyone else. And then – though I didn’t find this bit out until he after he died, he made Mum promise not to tell me because he didn’t want me thinking it was the proper way to solve problems – he went round to the kids’ houses and told their parents that if their sons even breathed in my vicinity again, he’d put them in hospital in my place, and apparently he was scary enough that they believed him.”

“So they stopped?” Arthur asks.

“They stopped,” Merlin answers. “I got the odd name now and again, but no one at school ever raised a fist to me again. I’m not sure how many years of being beaten up Dad saved me from, but it was probably quite a few.”

“That’s good,” Arthur murmurs. “That’s really good.”

X

Arthur falls silent for quite a while, and Merlin doesn’t speak either. He wants to, that much is clear from all the aborted pre-speech breaths he takes, but the words seem to abandon him before he gets them out.

Eventually, he fidgets until he’s upright, seeming to take great care to not look at Arthur. “I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I?” he asks, then ploughs on before Arthur can figure out an answer. “I’m sorry, I should have said something when you asked me to stay, but… It’s fine, I’ll go sleep in the living room with the others, and I promise not to go to the papers with stories about Prince Arthur’s night with a gay man, or anything.”

He’s most of the way to standing before Arthur reaches out, wrapping his hand around Merlin’s arm, gentle but firm. “I’m not uncomfortable, Merlin,” he says, and it’s the truth. He’s nervous, maybe, and more than a little envious, but he’s not uncomfortable. “Please, don’t go.”

Merlin does look at him now, and even in the dark Arthur feels like he’s being inspected, evaluated, _judged_ , and for a moment he’s sure he’s going to be found wanting.

“Right,” Merlin says eventually, a hard edge to it that wasn’t there before, as if Arthur denying that he might be uneasy sharing a bed with him is worse than if he actually wasn’t okay with it. “What’s with the silence, then?”

“Maybe I’ve run out of questions,” Arthur answers, heat rising in his voice in response to the harshness in Merlin’s. It doesn’t last, though, because Gwaine is still snoring like a steamboat and waking him would only lead to complications Arthur isn’t willing to deal with right now, not to mention the fact that he’s not angry, not really. “Or maybe,” he says, softer and sadder, “I’m just not sure what it’s okay to ask.”

Merlin carries on with his judgement for an uncomfortably long time before finally giving in, sliding back between the covers beside Arthur, leaving what Arthur is quite sure is a larger distance than there was before. “How about you ask whatever you want, and I’ll decide if I want to answer it or not, okay?”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees.

X

“So, how did they take it?” Arthur asks.

“How did who take what?”

Arthur swallows, then starts up again, this time with the intention of actually making sense, though he’s probably not doing so well. “Your parents. How did they take you being… you know.”

“Me being gay?” Merlin asks. “You can say it, you know. It’s not contagious, promise.” He sighs, sounding half irritated and yet also halfway to a smile. “They were okay with it, really. It’s not really like they were surprised, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I think the first clue was probably when I was five and told them I was going to marry my teacher when I grew up, then had a strop when Mum told me that two men weren’t allowed to get married. She was real nice about it, said it was stupid and unfair, that maybe it’d change one day, but… well, I guess it wasn’t really out of the blue when I told them I liked boys.”

“What did they say?”

“Mum promised that she’d love me regardless, like that’d ever been in question. And Dad… I think his exact words were _well, duh_ , but it wasn’t like he minded. He was always just my dad, you know?”

_No,_ Arthur thinks. He really, really doesn’t. Uther has always been his father, his king, and, yes, Arthur got hugs if he tripped and skinned his knees, got to blow out the candles on his birthday cake or play football with Uther in the park, but only if there was a camera around to capture the perfect family moment. He got a story before bedtime every night, but six days of the week it wasn’t his father telling it, nor was it his father who picked him up from school or rocked him back to sleep after he had a bad dream. He didn’t grow up deprived, starved of affection, always had Morgana and their nanny, Gwaine and Aunt Agatha, but no, Uther was only his father, never his dad.

“You’re lucky,” he says, the words sounding so sad, so _lost_ , that he instantly wants to take them back.

“I guess,” Merlin says, either oblivious to or ignoring Arthur’s cringing embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, they were absolutely fine with it, but it’s the twenty-first century, isn’t it, not the seventeen-hundreds, and this is Britain. Kids should be able to expect acceptance from their parents, no matter who they love, and I shouldn’t be considered lucky just because I got it.”

The quiet vehemence in his voice takes Arthur’s breath away. He’s reminded of Morgana talking about one of her _causes_ , Percival supporting their right to privacy, even Gwaine on one of his – usually slightly inebriated – rants, but with Merlin, Arthur actually _believes_ it. He’ll go to Morgana’s charity events, smile when Percival tells him a room is safe and that he’s happy to wait inside or out if Arthur wants him to, nod sympathetically when Gwaine spews angry bollocks about whatever he’s mad at, but when Merlin speaks, Arthur feels that, maybe, acceptance is what he deserved.

Maybe he deserved to be accepted, and maybe his father would even have managed it, if Arthur had given him the chance.

And, since he’s hoping for impossible things to happen, maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow morning and both his parents will still be alive.

“Maybe,” he says, “but just because they expect, it doesn’t mean they’ll get it.”

“Yeah, well, one day.”

_One day_ , Arthur thinks, _doesn’t work quite so well if both your parents are dead._

“Hey,” Merlin says, his hand on Arthur’s arm a startling warmth, and only then does Arthur realise he’s trembling, shaking, so very close to tears. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

“My father’s gone, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, so quiet he can barely hear it himself, but even if the exhaustion and terror and grief of this night makes him brave enough to say it, he’s not brave enough to say it any louder. “He’s gone, and I’ll never know if he could have been okay with it.”

“If he could been okay with…” Merlin gasps, the hand on Arthur’s arm tightening momentarily. “Arthur, are you telling me that you’re gay?”

Arthur doesn’t just think about lying; he feels the impulse like a physical weight on his chest. It pins him down and crushes the air from his lungs, keeps the blood from reaching his heart, only willing to let him go if the next word out of his mouth is _no_. It’d be easy, too, to give in to it, to hide the way he always has before. Easy, and safe, and he could carry on, certain in the knowledge that his is a secret that will never get out, never bring shame upon his family, never destabilise everything his ancestors stood for the way it has the power to.

But Uther, the main and most obvious reason Arthur has always wanted to keep this a secret, is gone, and tonight Arthur finds he’d rather take the hard route than the easy one, would give up on being safe if it means he gets, however briefly, to be _free_.

“I am,” he says, and never in all of time has freedom sounded so afraid. “I’m gay.”

“Huh,” Merlin says, his hand slipping down Arthur’s arm until it reaches his hand. Not holding, just resting, waiting, and if saying the words was hard then twining his fingers around Merlin’s is almost impossible but, somehow, he manages it. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Arthur asks, his heart working overtime, feeling every beat, hearing it in his ears, tasting it in the back of his mouth.

“For telling me,” Merlin says. “For trusting me with the truth.”

The gratitude in his voice is audible even over the rush of blood in Arthur’s eardrums, and it hurts, almost as much as the icy ache of losing his father. To be thanked so sincerely, and for something that makes no difference… It really, really hurts.

“Why? This changes nothing,” Arthur points out, answering Merlin’s painful gratitude with venom, so much venom. “It doesn’t make any difference if you know, and it’s not like anyone’d believe you if you told them, anyway.”

“I’d never!” Merlin says, sharp, offended, _loud_ , the pressure of his grip on Arthur’s hand vanishing suddenly. “It’s your choice when you tell people, and I’d never take that from you.”

“No,” Arthur argues, pulling his hand the rest of the way from Merlin’s. “It’s my choice _if_ I tell people.”

Merlin snorts disbelievingly. “‘ _If’_ you tell people? Tabloid journalists might not be all that smart, but sooner or later they’re going to work it out, whether or not you make an official announcement.”

“They _won’t_.”

“So, what?” Merlin asks, sitting up, moving even further away. “You’re just going to keep dating women, marry whichever one unlucky enough to meet whatever criteria you’re working on, then just lie back and think of England as many times as it takes to knock her up?”

The crassness makes Arthur flinch, though not as much as the portrait of Arthur’s future he’s just conjured. It’s bleak, dismal and dire, unethical and unfair, and, for all of that, entirely accurate. Merlin might get to be out, even Gwaine might be able to get away with screwing whoever he wants, but Arthur doesn’t, he can’t. There has always been too much at stake for him to be who he wants to be.

“So what if I do? Do you really think I’d be the first monarch to do so?”

“Maybe not the first one,” Merlin says, his voice calm again, gentle, like he somehow thinks what he’s saying could ever make a difference. “But I’m pretty sure you’d be the first one who had a choice about it.”

_I’ve never had a choice_ , Arthur thinks. He never has, he never will, and he’s already faced too much today. He doesn’t need this man, this _stranger_ telling him how to live his life.

“You know _nothing_ ,” he says, suddenly furious, because Merlin is _wrong._ Uther might not be around to exact judgement on Arthur anymore, but there’s still so many other factors to consider, so many obstacles. He’s never told anyone before, doesn’t even know if he’d be able to, and even if he did, if he _could…_ The monarchy might not have the political power anymore, might not have the authority they did once, but there’s still the church, the respect of the people, the responsibility Arthur has had years to prepare for, responsibility that means who he is and what he wants can never come first.

Telling Merlin was probably the stupidest thing Arthur could have done tonight.

“You don’t know anything, Merlin,” he says. “Not about this, and certainly not about me.”

“I know you’re a good man, Arthur,” Merlin answers, not just kind but apologetic, too, like he regrets the turn this conversation has taken just as much as Arthur does. “I know you have the same right to happiness that everyone else does, and that you deserve better than a life of hiding who you are.”

_You’re wrong_ , Arthur thinks, as grief sweeps up and over him. He deserves nothing more than the future Merlin has drawn for him, nothing less, and how horribly selfish it is that he should be thinking about it now, tonight, when his father is gone.

“I was wrong,” he says. “I am uncomfortable with you staying here.”

Without a word, Merlin stands up and walks out the door.

X

Merlin’s attitude at breakfast the following morning can’t quite be called cold, but it’s certainly not anything close to warm. He’s polite, civil, demonstrating all the propriety he refused to bother with yesterday, and Arthur does _not_ like it.

And maybe if it was everyone, if Merlin was being as distant with Gwaine and Percival as he is with Arthur, it’d be okay. Arthur would just chalk it up to him not being a morning person, let it slide, because it’s not like he’s ever going to see him again, anyway, but it’s not. Merlin is still grinning at Gwaine, still making jokes as he offers Percival endless mugs of coffee and slices of toast, but all Arthur gets is good manners, a careful distance, and an awful lot of _respect_.

Funny how awful that word sounds right now, and yet, somehow, it’s exactly what he deserves.

“Can I get you anything else, Gwaine, Percival?” Merlin pauses, then turns to Arthur, his expression remote. “Your highness?”

Percival stands up, collecting up their plates and mugs from the table and carrying them over to the sink. “Thank you,” he says, “but we should be heading back. Leon said he and Morgana would set off as soon as it got light, and it’s probably better that we return before the police begin a full-scale investigation into your disappearance, sir.”

Merlin’s face quirks briefly into a smile, only to droop again immediately after. “Do you want me to get your car?” he offers, his head tilting to one side. “Or you can borrow mine? It’ll probably attract less attention, at least until you get most of the way there.”

Arthur manages to keep his flinch internal as he realises just how upsetting he finds the idea of Merlin not including himself in their ride home is, and how ridiculous to be upset anyway. He’s known the man less than twenty-four hours, has almost nothing in common with him, and yes, he’s kind, friendly, and there was a spark, maybe, or the potential for one, but it could never have gone anywhere. Merlin isn’t part of his life, and there’s no point in wishing he was.

“Yours, I think,” Percival answers, though he seems to notice a problem with this plan that Merlin hasn’t. “You’ll need to come with us, though, unless you don’t want your car back again?”

“I’ll return it,” Gwaine offers quickly. “Of course, I’ll have used your car to get back here, so I’ll not be able to get home, and you’ll have no choice but to let me stay as long as I like.”

“As tempting as that offer is…” Merlin says, not quite smiling, but it’s close enough to it for Gwaine to look hopeful and Arthur to feel hurt, rejected, exactly as he deserves to. “I think I’ll go with you, thanks.”

Percival grins as he slips his arms into his jacket. “A wise choice,” he says, waiting for the rest of them to follow suit. “The car would probably come back in pieces, and he makes for a terrible house guest.”

X

Traffic is miraculously light the whole way there, and the number of lights that seem to be in their favour is extraordinary: if Arthur didn’t know better, he’d think the world was trying to hurry Merlin out of his life, though if that was the case he would really have preferred it to happen _before_ he was foolish enough to come out to him, or to get as attached as he somehow seems to be.

The crowds that line The Mall are as large as Arthur has ever seen them, though, and they find themselves reduced to considerably less than crawling speed as Merlin attempts not to run over the flocks of journalists waiting with microphones or cameras for someone who knows what’s going on to share some gossip, not to mention the well-wishers lining the street with flowers and consolatory crap that Uther would have hated and Arthur just can’t see the point in.

Percival has his phone out, speaking into it with a quiet fury, and by the time they reach the gates they’re open, stone-faced guards in ridiculous costumes painstakingly ignoring the journalists trying to quiz them whilst also doing their best to keep back anyone who isn’t Arthur, Merlin, Gwaine or Percival.

( _Their best simply isn’t good enough_ , Uther would have said, and, _I expect better_ ).

“Well,” Merlin says, as they roll to a standstill as close to the door as he can get them, the silence of the engine stopping oddly deafening. “We’re here.”

Percival is the first out of the car, by which point they’re already surrounded by every other security person who has ever been employed by Arthur’s family; getting out of the car doesn’t seem too much of a risk, really, not when they’re so close to being home, so close to safe.

X

The scream is the first sign that all isn’t well. A woman, shrill and terrified, and then the crowd goes wild, people pushing and shoving and shouting, and they should be distant from it, away from the madness, but they aren’t.

A guard to Arthur’s left stumbles, or so it seems, and it’s not until Arthur turns to look at him that he sees the blood, more terrible in the daylight than it was the night before, even if it isn’t his father’s this time.

“Inside,” Percival shouts, crowding in behind Arthur, his gun drawn, eyes roaming constantly as he searches for the threat. Merlin presses in on Arthur’s right, Gwaine on his left, and Arthur catches sight of Leon standing in the open doorway, his right arm a swathe of white, suspended in a sling, and a glimpse of dark hair behind him has to be Morgana, though what the fuck she’s doing there rather than somewhere safe Arthur has no idea.

The next shot is audible even over the noise of the crowd, and suddenly there’s no one in front of Arthur, no one between him and the pale, skinny _kid_ pointing a gun at his head.

“Arthur!” Merlin yells, absolute terror in his voice, and then the world goes silent.

X

“That’s-” Arthur gasps, staring at the shiny lump of metal in front of his face, suspended in the air like it’s hanging on the end of a piece of string. “Jesus,” he manages, taking a step back, just far enough that he can look at the bullet without crossing his eyes.

It’s flattened, blunted, and Arthur knows what bullets should look like, the way they curve to a point, the way they carry on until they hit something solid enough to stop them.

Bullets don’t stop in midair and hang there, shouldn’t crumple on impact with nothing, aren’t supposed freeze only inches away from Arthur’s nose.

Slowly, so slowly, like breaking eye contact will restart time and the laws of science, Arthur drags his gaze away, searching not for his guards (currently launching themselves at the shooter) or his sister (staring disbelievingly, the same way Arthur was) but for Merlin, whose voice was nearly the last thing Arthur heard.

Merlin is staring back at him, his arm outstretched like he meant to rip the bullet from the air with his bare hands, his face pale and eyes so wide, lit by a fierce glow, golden like fire and more blinding than the sun.

“Jesus,” Arthur says again, as Merlin lowers his arm, the gold leeching from his eyes. The bullet falls, too,  the invisible, impossible string cut, and the chink of metal on stone is as loud as Arthur’s harsh, heavy breathing, piercing the air the same way the gunshot did a moment ago.

“I can explain,” Merlin says, looking like he’s teetering on the verge between falling to his knees at Arthur’s feet and vomiting on them. He was so pale already, so fair-skinned, but now he could be a ghost, flour-white and tissue-paper transparent, as dead and gone as Arthur almost was. “Arthur, sir, please.”

Arthur takes a step towards him, then a second, unsteady but not unsure. “That was-” he starts, and knows the word he needs to finish that sentence, however impossible it may be. Impossible, and yet the only option that makes sense, the only thing that explains everything: Morgana’s nightmares and her _feelings_ ; Merlin leading them through the hospital unseen; every light between Merlin’s flat and the palace being green at eight o’clock on a Thursday morning; a bullet stopping dead without hitting anything. It’s impossible, fairytales and nonsense, madness, and it _is_.

“Magic,” Merlin says, finishing the sentence for him, sparing Arthur the lunacy of having to say it aloud. “It was magic, Arthur. _I_ am magic.”

_You’re insane_ , Arthur thinks. _Impossible, insane, perfect._

“Dinner,” he says, abrupt and far too brief to be comprehensible, and even so it’s the only thing he can think of. “With me,” he elaborates, “please?”

Merlin’s frown is deep, his lack of comprehension clear not just on his face but in his entire body. “Arthur?” he asks. “Did you not hear what I said?”

“You said that you’re magic,” Arthur says, feeling utterly insane himself, but at the same time so utterly certain; magic is real, his sister can see the future, and Arthur is outing himself in front of representatives of every major media outlet the UK has. “You’re magic, the world is insane, and I _do_ have a choice. Will you have dinner with me?”

Merlin gawps at him in silence, confusion sliding slowly into clarity, until eventually a grin breaks out across his face, brighter and fiercer than the suns that only moments ago blazed in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, taking the hand Arthur holds out towards him. “Dinner sounds good.”


End file.
